Missing stars
by tweeny-weeny
Summary: “I have a star named after me you know. When I grow older I’m going to leave here and join the stars.” I nodded my head solemnly, of course he would. Sirius’ next door neighbour reflects. One shot.


**Missing Stars.**

**Disclaimer: It's not mine. Any of it. This is written for non profit enjoyment and to cure my inability to sleep at the moment.**

**Summary: "I have a star named after me you know. When I grow older I'm going to leave here and join the stars." I nodded my head solemnly, of course he would. (Sirius' next door neighbour reflects. One shot.)**

For one year, two months and 3 days I was a witch.

I was eight, and that was when I met the boy-next-door. We lived in a dingy district, the neighbours drank and the family down the street often had loud parties which kept me awake with their loud drumming bass.

We met at the park.

I sat on the swings, I waved at my mother but he waved cautiously back. A small, dark haired boy.

You were nine.

I said hello and asked where he lived and he said he couldn't tell me, but I knew. He was the boy who lived next door. I had seen him with his mother. He also had a brother. I had seen the brother pour salt on a slug. He told his brother to stop. That's why I said hello.

The next day I saw him again. I was going down the slide and almost went into him. I thought I would cry until he laughed. His face changed. He was no longer withdrawn and sullen; he was carefree and childlike like me.

"Who are you?" I asked,

"I'm Sirius." I giggled at his name, so different to any I had heard before. He frowned and I stopped. "I have a star named after me you know. When I grow older I'm going to leave here and join the stars." I nodded my head solemnly, of course he would.

After that I saw him everyday, at the park, in my garden. I would beg to be told of what the stars were like, of things I could barely imagine and which he knew so much about.

"They're smiling angels in the sky." He said, "They burn so brightly that nothing can touch them. They are warm and comforting and homely. We are made of star particles you and me."

One day he told me something which would change my world forever, "I'm magic you know." I laughed and said I was magic too thinking this was one of his games. "When I'm eleven I'm going to go to Wizard's school." I frowned my eight year old frown and demanded to see some magic.

Nothing happened.

The more he tried the more sure I was that he was joking and I laughed, I laughed at him. He got angry and stormed away and as he left a daffodil, my favourite, exploded.

I didn't see him the next day.

Then I was at the park and I saw him, once again sullen and withdrawn. I walked up behind him and whispered in his ear,

"I believe you're magic."

We had one more year and eight more days.

I would pretend to be a witch and he would pretend to do more magic, and I could not doubt him and his quick intelligence and infinite knowledge. Every time I began to listen to my other friends, my friends at school who loved chocolate and dolls and pretty dresses, when I listened that magic didn't exist something would happen. Something else would explode, a clock might stop or he wouldn't hurt himself after a nasty fall and I would believe again and apologise for doubting him.

He always forgave his little witch.

We had eight more days and I was crying. Now he was newly eleven and he told me he was leaving on the first step of his journey to the stars. I asked him if he was coming back.

Then his mother came and he never answered, never could answer because _she_ was there, and _she _was shouting.

"_Shame of my flesh."_ She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

I watched him leave from my window, saw him climb into a large car and be driven away from the house next door towards the wizard's school, to start his journey to the stars.

I saw him sometimes in the summer. He always came back maybe for a week, sometimes two. I spoke to him in the street.

We were twelve and our days together had finished.

He spoke of new friends at his new school but not of the stars. He was not mine anymore and I let him go.

I wanted to let him go.

When I was fourteen I became addicted to coffee. It was the summer and he was home and I watched from my window as the next-door's porch blew off, as he came through the rubble. He shouted at _her_ before he picked up a trunk and walked away.

They told us there had been a gas explosion.

I knew it was his magic.

My wizard, my boy-next-door, my Sirius had left for the stars. He was going to join his namesake. I smiled at his retreating back and sipped my coffee.

I saw him again twenty years later.

I nearly dropped that same coffee mug as I sat in that same chair by that same window. The reporter on television said that he was a murderer. A modern day Jack-the-ripper. He was armed and dangerous; we were not to approach him. I recognised him as once again that sullen and withdrawn child, not as the boy with lively smiles and glittering eyes as he had that evening when we were twelve and he told me of the pranks he and his friends had played.

I frowned and took a sip of my coffee, the drink I had refused to give up since I had seen him start his journey.

By how far had he missed his stars?

_A/N: You know the drill. Please R&R. PLEASE._


End file.
